


Motivational Rumors

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 20:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5980471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're the subject of rumors.  In Logistics.  Obviously they need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motivational Rumors

**Author's Note:**

> What I meant to write: smut. What I actually wrote: dialogue. *deep sigh*
> 
> Also: this has not been visited by the beta fairy, so as ever, feel free to poke me if you notice problems.

Maria Hill is not a woman who wastes anyone’s time, especially her own, so when she sits down next to Clint, across from Coulson, she starts talking immediately without any of what Clint has been told, not that this stuff is high on his priority list, are polite or customary greetings. “You’re the subject of rumors in Logistics.” She shovels a ginormous forkful of lasagna in her mouth (fair, it’s nine thirty at night and it’s been kind of a stupid-long day because that’s how the bad guys roll) and follows it with water.

Coulson dabs a dot of sauce from the corner of his lip; he’s half a plate ahead of her. “Robot innards or a new way to murder someone with stationery or baking supplies?” Being the subject of rumors is not exactly new for him, and Clint knows he kind of takes some pride in both the common flavors.

“Neither. I meant you, plural.”

“Us?” Clint side-eyes at that. “What, are we murdering people with stationery in _tandem_ now? Because I kind of think the arrow thing is fancy enough on its own.”

“Nah.” She’s halfway through her plate; see: no wasting time. “They think you’re fucking.”

Coulson pauses for a fraction of a second with his water halfway to his mouth then continues on and takes a deliberate sip. “What, right _now_? I think everyone would be able to tell.” Obviously, it’s a joke. Right. Clint snorts and picks up his fruit cup to just tip into his mouth; spoons are a hassle.

“No, not right _now_. As you are obviously on a dinner date right now.” Coulson chokes a little at that, and so does Clint but she just takes another enormous bite, then puts a couple fingers in front of her mouth to add, “Last week, though.”

Clint looks at Coulson. “What the hell were we doing last week, boss?”

“What we do every week, Barton: try to take over the world.” Coulson shrugs when Clint points at him and mouths _dork_. “I dunno. Certainly not fucking, since I think _I_ would have been able to tell.”

Clint turns to Hill and frowns. “What is this? Are you trying to win some kind of bet here?”

She looks from one of them to the other and back. “Bet on _what_?”

“I dunno, making us choke to death on water?”

“Yes, obviously. Two guys that murder people with arrows and stationery are going to be incompetent with water. No, I’m not trying to win a bet.”

“Right, okay, so what, then?” Clint folds his arms as she uses her bread to sop up the last of the sauce. “Why exactly does Logistics think we’re banging?”

She gulps down water and stands, shrugging. “Something about him looking rumpled and wearing your clothes in a 4am call?” She takes a step back from the table, picking up her tray. “Good talk.”

“Wait. Seriously?” Clint sighs. “That was because of the slime. And the itchy stuff. His kit got soaked in the mess, I had a dry set, obviously I shared because this is what regular people do?” He looks at Coulson. “Come on. Why the hell would Coulson be fucking _me_?” He asks this just at the same time as Coulson asks the same question about him, and his attention shifts from Hill to across the table. “Wait, what?”

“Barton, honestly. What kind of question is that?”

“Boss, what. I’m a train wreck fifteen days a week! I barely know how to adult well enough to not die of exposure on a warm dry day. What the hell would a guy like you want with me?”

“A guy like me.” Coulson is giving him the look that suggests he is being ridiculous, but Clint doesn’t quite know why.

“Well yeah. You know, every t dotted and i crossed? Knocks out bad guys with flour? Probably remembers every occasion and meets every need and want, and, like, I’m barely literate and the last time I was in a relationship on Valentine’s Day, I had to go get the last squashed pack of strawberry heart Peeps at 1am on the, um 23rd? What day is Valentine’s Day?”

Coulson sighs. “The fourteenth. Of February.”

“Okay, so yes, 23rd seems about right? I don’t know, he wasn’t that impressed.”

“And you think remembering the strawberry Peeps on time is crucial to your worthiness? Not that I have a problem with Peeps, but then, I’m happy with a diet of Hot Pockets and convenience store donuts.”

“Which is where the flour comes into play. And yes. That and not being the guy that forgets to the do the dishes until he’s drinking out of the coffee pot. Why?”

“Well, because _I_ think telling people they mean something to you is more important than molded pink sugarballs. And the flour thing was just the once. And for the love of god, Barton, there is a lot more to like about you than any single trait, but let’s start with your tactical skills, your fieldwork, your ability to explain why something is a problem, your ass, your ability to charm bystanders, your protective instincts over anyone who has ever been remotely decent to you—“

“My _ass_?”

“What? Please. You know it’s absurd.”

“No, I do, but I didn’t know you did. Also, what? Like, when people are nice to someone like me, they’re probably one thousand percent worth saving, and anyway, I only explain problems because you actually listen, and—“

“People have every reason to be good to you which you entirely deserve and what kind of idiot doesn’t listen to the tactical reasoning of a guy whose lifetime mission success rate is at least ninety-seven percent? Since joining SHIELD; I’m assuming before that it was pretty close to a hundred or you’d never have survived.”

“Okay, but still none of that explains why the simple fact that I gave you sweatpants and hoodie, well and a blanket, so you wouldn’t die of itching while we went through the files, I mean, okay, 4am, sure, but who would draw the conclusion you were like, you know what, here we are in the field with itchsauce and gross goo, with hours of shit to do, and my dumbass carnie sniper is turning me on so much I’m gonna go off the clock and let him suck me off or something. Like you would do that.”

Coulson wets his lips. “I wouldn’t do that, because if I were going to have sex with you, if I were choosing I’d want it to be somewhere nice. Where I could take my time, make it something you’d want to repeat.”

“Where you could—what? Why would you…” Clint shakes his head, voice getting louder. “No, I mean, of course you’d want somewhere nice. Classy, right? Like, I’m down for shenanigans in a barn or something, and I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve thought maybe we could, you know, I mean, but you’re not a hayloft kind of guy and also wait, _I_ would want to repeat? Coulson, what the hell. I’d be on my knees a couple times a day if you were into that.”

“Why would I not be into that?” Coulson leans forward a little. “Barton, you can’t possibly think I’d turn you down.”

“But! Train wreck!”

“Train wreck I’d take to bed every night if I thought I had what it took to hold his interest.” 

Clint stares. “Um.” 

“So, that’s a no?”

“What? NO. Yes. It’s not a no. It’s a, I mean. You do. Have what it takes. I don’t, you should, all right this is fucking ridiculous but you _cannot be serious_ here.” 

“So there’s no reason we can’t go back to my office and—“

“Yes. No, I mean, yes, not your office because you want somewhere nice.”

“Or close.”

“Nice.” Clint presses his lips together. “You deserve nice.”

“So do you.” Coulson’s mouth sets as well. “We’re not going to argue over whether you can have nice things.”

“No,” Hill breaks in. She’s gone and ditched her tray, but she’s back. “No, apparently you’re going to argue over who wants the other faster and harder.” She smirks and leans on her hands on their table. “I’m going with ‘both.’ Also, no bet, because _no one_ wants to bet against, but I _do_ have today in the pool.” She brushes off her hands. “My work here is done.”

Clint scowls. “There’s a pool?”

“There’s a pool for everything,” Wu says helpfully from two tables away. “I’ve got tomorrow, so if you wanna angst for a couple more hours before you get it on…”

“What if we want to wait for Valentine’s Day?” Clint asks. “Just to be contrary. Who’s got that one?”

Wu shrugs. “Fury.”

“Oh god.” Clint doesn’t even know what to do with that, and yeah, okay, Coulson just said he wants him but maybe it was bravado or, or maybe he’s going to split the take with Hill, or… or maybe Clint's panicking for no good reason. Coulson wouldn't mess with him like that, right? Right.

Coulson gets up and stands next to Clint’s chair, holding out his hand. “You want to find who’s keeping the book, pick a day?”

“No.” Clint takes Coulson’s hand. “Hill probably just went and bought every open day for the next year, and I don’t want to wait.”

Coulson smiles. “Thank god. Come on.”

Wu hollers after them, “Just a couple hours, man. This is what foreplay is for.”

Coulson leans closer to Clint and says, “I do like foreplay. But maybe that can be for round two.”

Clint bites his lip. “I can live with that.”


End file.
